


Summer

by Wxlves



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Bad At Titles, They're All Gay, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, except Rhys, in some way, just please don't try and take it seriously, kind of crack, unoriginal title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 21:45:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14923392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wxlves/pseuds/Wxlves
Summary: It was that summer, that glorious, sun drenched summer, that Cass learned he enjoyed the lean, muscled bodies of males as much as the softer curves of females. It was that summer that Azriel decided as much as he liked Cass, he loved Morrigan. It was that summer where Mor learned what she could get out of life outside that horrid Court of Nightmares, taught to her by her two Illyrian bastards (and her cousin, when he could.)OrSnapshots of Mor, Cassian and Azriel (with a little bit of Rhys) in the Illyrian war camps over the course of one summer. The three of them learn things about themselves and each other they never knew, all while having as much fun as you'd expect from three twenty year-olds.





	Summer

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a serious thing I wanted to do and turned into "the origin of Cassian's man-bun that he has and nobody can convince me otherwise" so I'm sorry

Summers in the Illyrian Steppes were short, two months of sun and warmth before grey clouds crept back into the sky and cold winds resumed their howling fury. It was one of the first warm days of the season and the camp-lord had lined up the young warriors, shoulder to shoulder, as part of inspection. Inspection was simply a nicer way of saying the camp-lord would treat them like cattle (if muscled, warlike cattle) for the next hour or so. When ordered to strip off their shirts Cassian had made a leering comment, which earned him two swift blows. He'd just staggered back to his feet, blood running from his nose into his mouth, and grinned, the sight gruesome. 

As soon as they were back in their tent Cass hadn't even had a chance to put his shirt back on before Azriel sat him down on the bed. Without a word, they'd done this dozens of times before, he leaned in close, gently bracing Cass’ nose between his hands, palms flat and facing inwards. With no warning his jerked his left wrist, keeping the right stable and effectively setting Cass’ nose back where it belonged. 

Two pairs of hazel eyes met for a beat longer than they should have before Azriel turned away, muttering something about, “your face looks like a murder scene.” He picked something up from the other side of the tent, then walked to the washbasin in the corner. When he turned back he held a dripping rag in one hand, which he reached out with towards Cassian’s face. The other Illyrian jerked backwards, confusion rippling in his face, but let Az continue after a moment. His hands, despite being so scarred and strong, were gentle as they cleaned the dried blood from his face. When he reached his lips instead of using the rag he just brushed a thumb, damp with water, over Cass’ lower lip; Cassian felt the air leave his lungs at the touch. A loud crash from outside startled both Illyrians, who jumped apart like they'd been shocked, the moment dissipating.

That night as Cass arched into his hand, for the first time his thoughts weren't of curves and long, soft hair; in his mind’s eye was hard, scar-flecked muscle and large, rough hands.

 

 

“Is that wistful look over the training they're getting or just the shirtless, sweaty males?” Mor questioned the young female beside her, who turned to the Fae, laughing. 

“Being trained to fight, helping my brothers on the battlefield, it's always been my dream. However,” she adds, “that shadowsinger…” As she trails off Mor nods, completely understanding. “...I’d climb his six foot eight frame like a tree.”

Mor’s laugh is abrupt, not having expected to hear such a thing from this young Illyrian. The mood sobered quickly when Reyna, the female, added, “many of my sisters wish to fight too, but the camp-lords refuse to train them. They often clip their wings so they can't even fly.” Here she shudders, true fear in her eyes. “I've managed to avoid that fate, somehow.” 

Morrigan throws an arm around Reyna’s shoulder in comfort, reassuring her, “I’ll do everything in my power to make sure they don't. Rhysand, he's no High Lord yet but when he is, that's when change really will come to these camps.” Reyna’s smile is bright as she replies,

“You, your cousin and your two Illyrians, one day you’ll be a court to change the world. You come from a hell known as the Court of Nightmares but you, you four will be a Court of Dreams.” 

Mor smiles, Reyna’s hazel eyes bright, and says, “I hope you're right. Much change is needed and someone has to do it. In fact, I'm going to start now.” She stands up defiantly, prepared to march away, when Reyna stands too, wrapping her bicep in an iron grip. 

“Don't you dare do anything stupid without me there. I'm not letting you go alone.” Morrigan’s teeth are bared in what could never be mistaken for a smile, 

“Let’s go raise a little hell.”  
-  
Reyna, for all her bravado, immediately dug her heels into the mud as soon as it became clear where they were headed. The camp-lord’s tent. 

“I know I agreed to the hell-raising but Mor, I can't be here. As a female I’m ranked lower than shit in his eyes.” Mor turned to look at Reyna, eyes and voice level, and said, “I’ll be there too. He’ll have us both to contend with and I don't think he’d even consider laying a hand on a High Fae. 

She was right about that.

The instant they marched into the tent Erik, the camp-lord, stood from his seat, glowering. “You bitches had better get the fuck out of my tent.” When neither female moved an inch he lunged, the impact loud on Mor’s ears as his hand connected with Reyna’s cheek. Her head whipped around with the impact before she turned back to glare at him, teeth bared. The insolence earned her another slap, before Mor grabbed his wrist with preternatural strength. 

“Move, girl. I can't and won't lay a hand on you or your kind but this one,” here he spat at the Illyrian before him, “is going to get what she deserves.”

Mor, still gripping Erik’s wrist, grinned. “I'm not sure you understand the concept of loyalty if you think I’ll just abandon her to your mercies, I know what kind of fucked up things you have in mind for her. We came with perfectly diplomatic intentions and you've ignored that. Now, as I'm sure you've heard,” Mor’s tone turned saccharine, “I’ve got powers beyond many of what even my kind have, and I will level this camp if I hear of you laying a single dirty hand on her.” Spinning on her heel Mor marched out of the tent, triumphant. 

Catching up to the taller female Reyna huffed impatiently. “I don't know what you think you've accomplished, but he's not changed.” 

“No, he's not, but you are. When he hit you, you didn't cower. You turned back and stared him down.” 

“Only because you were there,” Reyna argued. Mor shrugged. 

“And next time, when I’m not? You’ll know you can do it, as long as you're willing to take the hit. Speaking of…” Her fingers gently traced the bruise that had already begun forming on Reyna’s face; wherever her fingers touched an unmarked path of skin followed. Golden light, so like her hair, trailed from her fingers as she healed her, Reyna staring in wonderment. When finished she leant down and pecked Reyna’s healed cheek with a smile and a “good as new.”

Reyna considered the gift she'd been given by this kind, wonderful Fae. Confidence. Because in the male’s world of the camps what you had inside of you was likely all that you had.

(When, centuries later, Rhys lifted the ban on females fighting, Reyna was the first to conscript into the training, silently thanking the High Lord’s cousin as she stared right into Erik’s eyes and received no retribution.) 

• • •

 

The night was unseasonably warm, but due to heavy rains much of the camp was nearly uninhabitable. Because of this, training for the next day had been cancelled, which was a cause to celebrate. On the other hand, Mor thought, anything was cause to celebrate when it came to Illyrians. Mor, Cassian and Azriel were settled in the males’ tent, miraculously saved from flooding by its small, uphill distance from the camp center. Bastard’s isolation was a blessing in disguise, it seems. A jar of alcoholic liquid that could hardly be called a drink had been passed between Mor and Cassian several times, Az having turned it down all but two. The shadowsinger sat on a pile of furs and blankets in the corner of the tent, observing his friends and ruminating on the fact that he should probably get new ones.

Cass was definitively tipsy, his huge size allowing him to drink massive amounts of alcohol before getting truly drunk. Mor, however, was nowhere near sober. She sat behind Cassian, legs crossed and fingers tangled in his dark hair as he winced. 

“I don't know why you let it get this bad, don't you have a comb?” 

“Somewhere, but who has the time?” 

“If you'd keep it shorter like Az does it wouldn't be half as much of a problem as it is.” Mor huffed, pulling a carved comb out of seemingly nowhere. Cassian was just sober enough to marvel at her ability to have anything and everything on her person at all times. She pulled her comb through his hair as he muttered and winced every time it caught on a particularly bad knot, Azriel watched with amusement, dark eyebrows flicking up. 

Cass tried to pull away but a drunk Mor was an insistent one, eventually the Illyrian gave up the fight and settled back, resigned. Mor hummed happily to herself as she brushed through Cassian's hair. 

“You know, if you put your hair up it would be much easier,” Mor announced, and Cass scoffed. 

“What, two little braids tied off with ribbons? That would be something.” Mor snorted in agreement. 

“I meant something much more manly.” She again produced an object out of thin air, a thin leather strap, and busied herself tying his hair up. After a moment she pulled back, satisfied. Az leaned over to look, on the back of Cassian's head was a dark knot of hair, artfully twisted so it stayed solidly up with only the leather holding it. Mor turned to Azriel with a devilish smile and the warrior held his hands up in surrender. 

“I’d rather if you didn't, Morrigan.” Nevermind the fact that he relished the thought of Mor’s cool hands, brushing the back of his neck as she sat so close they shared body heat. I've got to stop, he thought to himself, mentally scolding his traitorous brain. 

Mor nodded sagely, the effect ruined by her slight drunken swaying, and pointed at Azriel, announcing, “I’d like to go for a ride.” 

Azriel choked on air and Cassian howled with laughter, the son of a bitch. Remembering how to speak, Az laughed a little. “I'm not really- I don't- Mor, that's not a good idea,” his face was flaming red. Mor’s snorted laughter was filled with amusement. 

“I meant flying, you oversized bat. Cass is too drunk.” 

“Oh,” was all Azriel could say, before going to the tent flap and holding it open for Mor. “Then after you, m’lady.”  
-  
When they landed Mor’s blond hair was wild from wind, her cheeks a rosy pink. The cold air had sobered her up a bit but she just knew what kind of hangover she’d have tomorrow. Azriel’s strong arm was steady around her shoulders as she tottered back into the tent to find a sleeping Cassian, on his stomach with his wings spread wide. Azriel had planned to guide her to his own bedroll and shove Cassian over so they could share his but before he could manage this, Mor had slipped out of his grasp. Within moments she was curled next to Cassian, tucked under his wing like a young Illyrian under their mother’s. She murmured a sleepy goodnight and was out in moments.  
-  
Azriel hoped they were drunk enough, and now hungover enough, that neither of them would remember what he’d almost said; no such luck. 

“Az!” Mor called out, shockingly chipper. “Can I ask you something?” He warily nodded as Mor sat down beside him, physically brushing away a shadow to clear space for herself. “Last night-” 

“I'm shocked you remember anything.”

“Me too. But when I said that I wanted to go for a ride (and you two had your heads so far in the gutter you thought I wanted to fuck you), you seemed… hesitant? I'm not sure that is exactly the right word, but you know what I’m trying to say here, right?” 

Azriel avoided her eyes, the only indication he was nervous besides the lone shadow that curled around the back of his neck. “You were drunk, Mor, I didn't want to think I could be taking advantage of you.” 

Mor tsked, frowning slightly. “That's not it, Az. Look at me.” Slender fingers gripped his chin, gently turning his head so he looked towards her. “Do you prefer males? It's perfectly okay if you do. I have no preference between males or females, as it happens.” 

Azriel raised one brow, the only surprise he’d allow his face to show. “Really? And no, I like females. It's just-” he cut himself off. Morrigan sighed and gave him a long look, imploring him to continue. “I guess I don't feel like that towards females. There’s a romantic attraction there, but no sexual.” His face warmed, a blush traveling across his face, neck and ears. Mor nodded in understanding before adding,

“There's nothing wrong with you for not feeling sexual attraction, Az.” 

“Well-” he again cut himself off, Mor once again silently begging him to continue. He knew he'd never been the most communicative, that this conversation was even happening was a miracle unto itself. 

“I do, sometimes, but really only with males, and there’s no romantic feelings there.” 

“You want to fuck males and fall in love with females,” Mor reiterated, Az nodding and seeming to sink into himself, sharing time over. 

“And I want to fuck both and fall in love with both,” she added, grinning. 

“Cass wants to fuck both, but fall in love with neither.” At Mor’s raised eyebrows he cursed. 

“You didn't know? I figured he'd told you.” 

“Nope!” Her tone was cheerful and unaffected. “So, by any chance, have you two…” a suggestive expression played across her face and Azriel stood to leave, shaking his head. 

“You, Morrigan, are unbelievable.” 

“I’m just curious,” she called after his retreating form. 

“Curiosity killed the cat but yes, we have,” Az shot back over his shoulder, watching as her jaw hit the ground. 

Later, in his own tent again (away from pestering high Fae) he noticed Cass’ hair tied back in a knot, albeit slightly messier, and wondered if this would be a usual thing now. 

(500 years later it was apparent that yes, the bun was here to stay)

• • •

The hairs on the back of Cassian’s neck stood on end at the quiet of the woods around him. He’d found Rhys’s scent hours ago but the male had been successfully evading him, likely thinking he was just as likely foe as a friend. There had been no hint of Azriel for almost a week, since they’d been dropped into these woods at the start of the Blood Rite. 

A twig snapped behind him and Cass whirled to find empty forest. His sensitive ears picked up a soft whistling and he moved on instinct, hand grabbing the sharpened wood, crudely formed into a makeshift weapon, as it flew past, almost nicking his ear. His assailant stepped from the pines grinning, 

“Almost got you there, brother. You’re too slow.” 

Cass’ lip curled back from his teeth in a snarl, no heat behind his words as he hissed, “You want to see slow, your majesty? All you have to do is look in the mirror.” Rhys laughed, eyes shifting around the small clearing. 

“Should I expect an attack from Azriel any second now?” Cassian sobered quickly, shaking his head, and Rhys felt his stomach drop into his feet. “No sign of him?” 

Cass was quick to reassure Rhys (and himself) that Azriel was the hardest to kill of any of them, that he was probably perfectly okay. After all, stealth was his specialty.  
-  
Night had fallen hours ago and Cass’ watch was over. He strained his senses for one last time, searching for any trace of their beloved shadowsinger; finding none he reached out a hand to Rhys’ shoulder, the Fae shooting up in an instant. His violet eyes caught the light like the mountain cats’ as he instinctively searched for the source of the danger, relaxing when he realized it was his brother beside him.

The Illyrians switched positions, Cass taking the makeshift bed and Rhys sitting up, leaning against the rough bark of a tree. The moon was hidden behind dark clouds, outlined against the darker sky. The complete lack of light made it difficult for even Rhy’s immortal eyes to see much of anything, though his ears and nose almost made up for it. Scanning the shadowed trees his gaze landed on a patch that seemed different somehow, and he tensed when realizing a figure stood there. 

Rhysand immediately looked away, realizing the benefit to faked ignorance, when movement caught his eye. A dark shadow had slithered over the ground towards him and up, wrapping around a loose lock of hair and tugging it. He winced, but laughed. 

“Come here, brother, and quit lurking in the shadows like some fell beast.” 

“How do you know I’m not some ‘fell beast’ here to kill you? You would regret your words then.” 

Their voices stirred Cassian, who was on his feet in a fighting stance before he saw who stood before him. “You look like shit, Az,” he said by way of greeting, pulling him into a rough hug. 

Rhys added himself in, wrapping long arms around the other two and chuckling as Azriel hissed back, “I'm not sure you're one to talk.” 

The next weeks were a blur, a haze of blood and pain and death.  
-  
Mor stood on her toes, stretching to see over tall, dark-haired Illyrian heads at the males entering the camp. Newly-anointed warriors, their status cemented upon return from the Blood Rite, had been trickling in from the mountains for days. Each time she strained for a glimpse of one of hers, hoping they were alive and might know of the others. 

Whispers reached her ears, the bastards made it. She perked up at that, but bastards were common in the camps and Azriel and Cassian were not the only ones. It wasn't until another voice snarled back, it's likely only because of that High Lord’s son, that she knew. She elbowed her way through the crowds, viciously jabbing limbs into whoever got in her way, and reached the edge of the crowd to find Cassian, Azriel and Rhys standing there. Cass’ shirt was so torn there were more holes than fabric and Rhys seemed to be favoring his right leg but they were alive. Mor threw herself forward, laughing, and wrapped her arms around her cousin, then turned to Cassian and grabbed his face in her hands, placing an exaggerated kiss on his blood spattered cheek. He just laughed and gently pushed her away in mock disgust. She turned to Azriel and hesitated, he was not the most tactical of the bunch, but when he opened his arms she grinned and leaned over to hug him.  
-  
“So, what's it like to be big, bad full-fledged Illyrian Warriors?”

Cass’ nose crinkled. “The same.”

“Less getting scorned and yelled at by superiors,” Az mumbled from the bedroll, where he lay on his chest so the newly inked runes on his back could heal. Mor leaned over to inspect them again, dark, beautiful whorls of ink in Illyrian runes. 

“What do they say?” The shadowsinger remained quiet after a pause so Cassian answered. “Those who are strong escape the darkness, but it's the strongest who become it.” He gently traced one finger, following the path of a rune that sat directly on Az’ spine. He hissed in pain but allowed it. 

Mor stood and walked to where he lay, kneeling beside him so he could look her in the eyes with his head turned. “Become that darkness as much as you need, but know that we’re here, will always be here, when you do return to the light.” 

Her dark eyes were so sincere Az had to blink away tears, and he had to again when he felt Cass’ large hand run through his hair, a show of solidarity. No matter what happened over the next years, decades, even centuries, none of it mattered as long as they would be there with him. Rhys too, not always present but always welcome when he was. One day he would be High Lord, them, his court, and they would rattle the stars.


End file.
